


Like The Wheel

by tardisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the brink of the Apocalypse, Castiel alerts Dean and Sam to a weapon, with ties harkening back to the Age of the Vikings, that may stop the wills of Heaven and Hell in their tracks.  With Sam and Bobby pursuing leads at home, Dean and Cas embark on a prodigious journey that will save the world, and each other, from certain ruin, or leave their names etched in the pages of history forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Stay updated at [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy-tales)!
> 
> Title from [Like The Wheel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5I1R9emN5w) by The Tallest Man On Earth
> 
> Graphic source: [tardisy](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy)

  ****

****

_In this year fierce, foreboding omens came over the land of the Northumbrians, and the wretched people shook; there were excessive whirlwinds, lightning, and fiery dragons were seen flying in the sky. These signs were followed by great famine, and a little after those, that same year, on the 6 th ides of January, the ravaging of wretched heathen people destroyed God’s church at Lindisfarne. (Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, versions D & E)_

_Never before has such terror appeared in Britain as we have now suffered from a pagan race. . . The heathens poured the blood of the saints around the altar, and trampled the bodies of saints in the temple of God, like dung in the streets. (Alcuin)_

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

**_Straumfjord Viking Settlement, 1101 AD_ **

He is dying; he knows this. Death is a tangible thing, icy, sopping wet, crouching in the rotting vegetation at the opening of the rocky outcropping where he took refuge from the sudden downpour. It is not a relief, or an honor as it is meant to be, yet he is grateful for the knowledge of his imminent demise, because it makes his gut churn and his cheeks grow warm with shame. If not for that heat, the freezing night certainly would have taken him hours ago.

His muscles have long since ceased to shiver, and he can barely unclench his fingers from his sax and parcel. It was foolish to leave their settlement alone; even moreso for one to set out with a fever. But they had made landfall at Straumfjord barely a fortnight ago and, since he first set foot on the ship, he had been ill. He had not been able to participate in the raids on the hard journey over, and, here, he was a useless wreck, a leech, to his kinsmen. They were a hearty people, brave and strong, but the weather and land were proving difficult, and everyone needed to contribute if they were to survive. He wanted to prove his worth. As he had lain on his pallet, frail and sticky with sweat, the familiar burning anger at his own weakness flared hot behind his ribs, and no more could he accept their pity, and his failings. So he grabbed his cloak, his sax, and his pack, and set out on the hunt, fever be damned. He could help to feed the settlement, and they would hold him in high regard, one that had nothing to do with his lineage.

An unfamiliar landscape, mercurial weather, and lingering illness proved to be far stronger than his anger and obstinacy. He should have known better. Clutching his dripping cloak tighter around his shoulders, he wills his fingers to work, opening the worn pack that rests at his hip. The golden object within, usually feather-light, takes all of his strength to heft into his lap. Stroking the burnished surface comforts him, and his mind wanders to the tales of his forefathers, and how this most remarkable thing came to be the family’s most prized possession, and catapulted them to an almost divine status.

As it was told, his great-great-great-grandfather was the greatest warrior of all those who ever were, and ever would be. His crowning achievement was leading the raid of Lindisfarne, the stories of which are the first any child hears, and the first any man tells. The monastery of Lindisfarne was a glimmering jewel in the eyes of his kinsmen, the island a lush, green paradise. Stories of stores of treasure, the like of which no one had seen, were whispered among the men. In particular, they spoke of a strange golden object, a horn, that would grant a worthy, righteous man the powers of a god. The monks of the monastery held the object in high regard, and treated it as holy. Men would cackle over their draughts, suds spilling down their fingers, and would weave tales of the things they would do, had they the horn. They spoke and spoke, yet no man acted. No man, that is, until his great-great-great-grandfather. He rallied the men, and led them bravely to Lindisfarne. They ransacked the monastery, uncovering a wealth of treasures, a plunder that was unmatched still. And among the valuables they recovered, true to the tale, was a glittering, golden horn. His grandfather was the first to find it, and touch it, and was indeed the only warrior worthy of possessing it.

From that point forward, his family was venerated. And rightfully so, as the horn’s rumored power seemed to manifest as superior offspring. Every generation produced men that were strong, sturdy, valiant warriors, and they all yielded many children. It seemed as though the horn was truly blessed, magical, as though, from the moment his great-great-great-grandfather ghosted his hands over the polished surface of the horn, his bloodline carried the promised fate told in the tales so long ago.

Everyone except him, that is. His forbearers, his father, his brothers, they all died glorious, heroic deaths in battle. Never quite strong enough, quick enough, smart enough, the horn’s magical influence seemed to have passed over him. He was no warrior, no merchant - nothing. It was why he came to Straumfjord in the first place. Everyone in his family was dead, and he was the last and only to carry on the blessed bloodline, to serve as guardian for the horn, so he set out to prove himself worthy of the lineage and responsibility. He imagined he would use his ancestry, show them the horn to prove it, so they would allow him to go on the voyage that few were selected to join. Then, he would shine in the raids, dripping in the blood of the enemies, magnificent, as his forefathers were, and he would conquer the new lands that everyone spoke of in hushed excitement. He would be strong. He would have many children, and pass the horn unto them. He would be worthy of the name he carried, of the blood that flowed through his veins. He would show them all that they were wrong when they laughed at his weakness, when they shook their heads in disappointment, when their eyes grew soft with pity.

But now, in this cold, dark cave, alone and tipping toward death, he cannot help but to wish for the presence of those sympathetic eyes, if only to keep the growing, gnawing panic at bay. His slowing heart sinks; he cannot not even die properly: without fear, without self-pity. If he only had another chance.

His numb fingers slip against the golden surface of the horn, and tears drip unbidden from his glassy, unseeing eyes. In a clarity granted only to those souls on the edge of departure, he sees his truth: he _is_ worthless. He could not defend his family’s honor, and didn’t live a life worthy of the reverence his name carried. But at least he protected their most precious possession. At least he did this.

Soft clouds borne of his breath hang in halos around his head. The cold of the rough rock seeps into his back and, for a moment, he is grateful he will not be going to Valhalla to join his ancestors. They must be so disappointed.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Shrouded in the darkness of a remote, rocky shelter in the still of rainy, cold dawn, Gunnarr Faererson died a wholly unremarkable death to match his wholly unremarkable life. There was no one there to mark his passing.

He was not missed.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay updated at [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy-tales)!
> 
> Graphic source: [tardisy](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy)

 

 _It is best to search while the trail is new.  
-_ _Norse Proverb_

_**Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts, 2010 AD** _

“So, what, now we’re contracted grave-robbers? This is what we’ve been reduced to?”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s exasperated tone. It seemed as though his brother had a comment about everything during their hike through the woods. Dean was certainly set on working himself up into a pleasant little mood. Maybe his blood sugar was low. Suddenly, the aborted pit stop at the local diner, in the name of “ _let’s just go and get this over with,”_ didn’t sit so well. An answering rumble from his own stomach agreed with him.

“Right, because you’re totally new to the whole grave desecration thing.”

Dean huffed irritably as he hefted his bag over his shoulder. “You know this is kinda different, Sammy.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s way more important.” He took Dean’s lack of response as concession, and, for the first time since they left the Impala in the parking lot of the state park, Sam was able to appreciate the sounds of nature drifting down from the canopy, the sweet, heavy smell of wet soil wafting on the cool breeze.

They had been on a job in New York when Castiel popped up behind them in the motel parking lot, just as they were throwing their bags in the trunk of the Impala.

 

 

 

_“Jesus Christ, Cas! I’m gonna put a friggin’ bell on you, I swear to god.” Dean slammed the trunk closed with more force than was necessary._

_“I don’t-” Cas paused, and Sam ducked his head to hide his grin at Cas’ pinched expression. When he looked up again, his brother and the angel were embroiled in their favorite game of Ocular Chicken. God._

_“So, Cas.” At his voice, Dean spared him a glance, but Castiel’s sights seemed to be stuck somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s left eyebrow. “What brings you here? Any leads on the God search?”_

_“Not on the ‘God search,’ as you put it; no.” He finally broke his stare to slide his attention toward Sam. Being at the center of the angel’s focus was something that still made his muscles twitch, an unconscious reminder from his body that the thing staring him down was definitely not human and, yeah, fight is good, but flight is probably better. He didn’t know how Dean did it. “But I do have another lead. One that might make finding God irrelevant.”_

_Sam and Dean looked at each other in surprise and leaned back against the cool metal of the Impala, in sync._

_“That’s very Nietzsche of you, Cas.” Dean’s words resonated with approval. “You definitely got our attention. Spill.”_

_There was an urgency that thrummed beneath Cas’ borrowed skin, and his eyes sparked as he explained. “In Massachusetts, a strange body was discovered in a virtually untouched area of a protected forest. I believe the corpse is in possession of an object that may be integral to preventing the Apocalypse.”_

_Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think I saw that online this morning. Remember, Dean?” He could the photo in mind’s eye, the police tape wrapped around thick, rough tree trunks, edges fluttering gently in the breeze._

_“Uh. Not really.”_

_“You were probably too busy stuffing your face-“_

_“Hey! They had a continental breakfast, Sam. We never stay at places-“_

_“Excuse me?” Cas’ graveled rumble stopped them short. “I believe there are more pressing matters at hand.” He paused. “Although, Dean, your fascination with pastries-“_

_“Okay! Enough raggin’.” He scowled at them both, in turn. “You got the floor, Shaggy.”_

_It took everything Sam had to bite back the retort sitting ready at his lips. “As I was saying,” he threw a significant look at his brother. ”Some kids came across this body yesterday evening, deep in the woods, all dressed in this Viking style get-up. The cops got there, and the body was in pretty decent shape, except it looked like it had been there for a long time or something. And, get this: the Viking stuff supposedly isn’t a costume; they think it’s the real deal. The article said they were calling in experts so they can excavate it properly. They think that area might have been a Viking settlement at one point. Straum-something-or-other.”_

_Dean’s forehead creased in confusion. “But, dude, if it’s a real Viking, wasn’t that, like, a long time ago? There wouldn’t be much left of the poor bastard. That’s weird, right?”_

_“Well, yeah.” Sam nodded. Under his breath he added, “That’s why I mentioned it.”_

_Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, then returned his attention to Castiel. “Okay, I give up. What does a ripe Leif Eriksson have to do with stopping the Apocalypse?”_

_Castiel took a deep breath, ready to switch into, what Dean lovingly termed, Mr. Miyagi Mode. “A long time ago-“_

_“In a galaxy far, far away.” Sam smacked Dean hard between his shoulder blades. Castiel threw him a grateful look._

_“A long time ago, at the beginning of what some human history terms ‘the Viking Age,’ there was raid on a monastery located on the island of Lindisfarne. The monks of the monastery were the keepers of a very important artifact of heaven.”_

_“And let me guess? It went MIA after the raid.”_

_Cas squinted at him. “If by ‘MIA’ you mean lost, then yes, Dean, you are correct.”_

_Dean crossed his arms and shook his head, smirking. “Geez, dude, maybe you guys oughta write your names on your toys.”_

_Sam butted in before they found out if Castiel could indeed shoot lasers out of his eyes, or if he was just doing a good dry-run imitation of it. “So, what was this object, Cas?”_

_“The Horn of Gabriel.”_

_A shocked silence fell between them.  Sam and Dean shared a look of disbelief._

_“That douche? Why the hell didn’t he hang onto it?”_

_“Well, as you know, Gabriel took a- a leave of absence, as it were.” Cas shrugged and stuffed his hands to the pockets of his overcoat, frowning. “Before he disappeared, he entrusted his Horn to the monks of Lindisfarne. It was his by our Father’s decree, and so his to protect as he saw fit. Gabriel believed it was a good place to keep it, I suppose. The details were beyond my scope.”_

_“’Course he did,” Dean scoffed._

_Sam waved his hands, “But, wait, I still don’t get what this has to do with, well. Anything.”_

_“In scripture, it is foretold that sounding the Horn of Gabriel will signal the beginning of the End.” Castiel drew his shoulders back and tilted his chin toward the morning sky, looking every inch a soldier._

_Sam hesitated, an unfamiliar spark of hope skipping down his spine. “So if they don’t have the Horn. . . “_

_“The Apocalypse cannot begin,” Cas finished. “If my brothers insist on doing things to the letter, this is not something they can simulate: it must be Gabriel’s Horn, and it must be sounded to initiate the Apocalypse.” The soldier dropped away then, and Cas looked almost apologetic, and remarkably human. “It is a long shot,” he admitted sourly. “Despite what the texts dictate, this may be a trivial matter. As I said, I don’t know all of the details. My brothers are determined, and such a simple loophole likely will not—“_

_“Cas,” Dean interrupted, suspicion dripping from the word. “Where’s the Horn?”_

 

Sam sighed, his backpack pinching his neck uncomfortably, his dress shoes rubbing at his heels. Castiel was right: it was a long-shot, a big one, but they couldn’t take the risk. Their backs were fast approaching the proverbial wall when it came to the imminent Apocalypse, and they were tipping off the edge of desperation. Castiel’s search for his missing Father was fruitless so far, and didn’t look to be improving any time soon. This Horn thing might actually be the break they needed. They had to try.

He wasn’t sure Dean was quite as zen about the whole thing. Correction: he wasn’t, if the waves of irritation that seemed to be pulsing from the tense line of his back were any indication. Sam pursed his lips together, recalling how they left things with Cas.

_Dean clapped his hands together. “Okay. So you think our new maybe-Scandinavian friend has maybe-Gabriel’s Horn?”_

_“I believe it is a possibility, yes.”_

_“Care to share your reasoning, Kojak?”_

_The angel tilted his head in confusion, but didn’t rise to the bait. “The corpse, believed to be dressed in time-appropriate wardrobe, was in excellent condition, considering its age. If it is real, that body is at least 1000 years old, Dean, yet it has not decayed significantly. And, among its other belongings, it is reported to be in possession of what appears to be a curved, golden, possibly trumpet-like object.” His gaze turned inward, considering. “Being in such close contact with such a powerful weapon of heaven would account for the body’s preservation.”_

_Dean gaped at him. “How did you find all of that out?”_

_“I’m an angel, Dean, not incompetent.” Cas had the decency to look smug. “I heard it on the police band.”_

_“Did you get an actual radio or can you hear-“_

_“Did you ever think,” Sam offered gently, “that maybe it’s just be some poor musician with a history fetish?”_

_“Of course I did. I’ve considered all possible explanations. That’s why I’m here.”_

_Dean frowned at Castiel. “What the hell does that mean?”_

_“As I said: this is a long-shot. A gamble. My efforts are required elsewhere.”_

_Sam watched quietly as Dean’s expression darkened. “Are you saying that playing hide and seek with God is more important than grabbing the thing that might put the brakes on all of this, right now? Wh- why are you even wasting time telling us? You should’ve just done this yourself, man!”_

_Castiel clenched his jaw. “I can’t do everything, Dean. Although, remarkably, it seems that, more and more, you are content to let me try.”_

_Sam could feel the beginnings of a headache flare behind his eyes as Dean’s voice dropped into its dangerous register, the one that made the monsters turn tail and run. “What are you getting at, Cas?”_

_They stared at each other, the tension between them palpable, and Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, just to break the spell._

_“Let me know immediately when you obtain the artifact.” And in rush of wind, Castiel was gone, leaving a faint scent of ozone drifting lightly on the air._

_Dean turned to Sam, incredulity etched in the lines of his face._

_“Son of a bitch.”_

_And, with that, they were on the road to Massachusetts._

 

His reverie was broken when Dean decided to continue his running commentary. Sam clenched his teeth, a dull pain pulsing at his temples. If his brother didn’t stop, their freshly discovered friend might be left with some company before the day was through. “Swiping stuff from a dead guy. It just seems… undignified.”

Sam stopped short at that. “Says the guy that warms his hands over the burning bones of recently exhumed corpses.”

Dean paused and threw up his hands in self-defense. “Dude. Part of the job description.” Walking past him, Dean tossed an accusing “You do it, too,” over his shoulder, but Sam could hear the smile in his voice.

Shaking his head, he followed after his brother, a smirk on his face.

 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

 

Dean tugged at his tie. Despite the cool and overcast afternoon, the exertion of the hike had rivulets of sweat slinking down his neck. His shirt was damp and sticking uncomfortably underneath his jacket. Their standard FBI get-up was necessary to get access to the scene, but man, there’s a reason hiking gear exists. He understood why the feds could get a reputation for being assholes. Just walk a mile in their shoes. Or several. Literally. Then people would get it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam rub lightly at his temple. He tried to ignore the surge of worry that set his teeth on edge, remembering the way he screamed in Bobby’s panic room only a couple of weeks before, trying to shake the hold of the demon blood after the whole debacle with Famine. He sighed heavily, the slick soles of his dress shoes slipping on the damp earth.

This trip was supposed to be a break, of sorts, after all of the shit that went down in Sioux Falls with Bobby’s wife and the rest of the zombie brigade. A simple poltergeist job in Rhinebeck, New York. Something that he and Sam could just go in and take care of; go through the motions, help someone, but not have to think about it too much. Something to take their minds off that little thing called the Apocalypse. Then Cas showed up. And now here they were, traipsing through the woods in their suits, on a wild goose chase for some irresponsible angelic douche-bag’s missing musical instrument.

That could potentially be the only thing they needed to stop the Apocalypse. Right. Dammit.

He growled under his breath, and rolled his eyes when Sam cut him a sharp look. Not that he could blame his little brother. Dean knew he’d been acting like a dick lately. But when you’ve got the fate of the world resting on your shoulders, could you really blame a guy? The pressure that Dean constantly felt set his heart beating double-time at regular intervals, and he couldn’t even get his four hours without being ripped out of sleep, with sweat-soaked hair and tears burning in his eyes. Sam’s setback after Famine hadn’t helped matters.  He felt like he was on the express train to Insanity-ville. More and more, whenever Dean closed his eyes, all he saw was an unfamiliar snarl on his not-brother’s face; all he smelled was the skunky stench of smoke that haloed not-Cas’ head; all he heard was the prophetic echo of Michael’s words in his young father’s voice.

These were the consequences if they couldn’t stop the Apocalypse, and they weighed heavy on Dean’s shoulders, made him want to hunch over and tear at his hair. And Dean was trying, he really, truly was, but in his heart of hearts, he knew Cas’ mission from (for?) God was useless, and they had few (okay, no) options. They were spinning their wheels, he knew it, in his gut, even if he would never admit it to himself. Not yet. Being on the brink of giving up was one thing, doing it was another. Right? There had to be a way, one that didn’t end with him and Sam as Angelic Tupperware.

Right?

Cas’ remark about Dean being content to sit back and let the angel do the heavy lifting cut a little close. Not for the first time, he wondered if the angel could see the dark thoughts that slithered between his veins, the ones he barely let himself reflect on. He wasn’t a quitter, especially when it came to his family. Unless God Himself tells them to hit the road (and, with Cas’ search fruitless so far, and for the foreseeable future, that day would likely never come), he’s not going to stop looking for a way out.

Was this horn thing the real deal? Dean didn’t think so, and could see, under the dimming optimism in both Sam and Cas’ eyes, that they didn’t really believe it either. But, for all his bitching, Dean would be damned if they didn’t see this lead through.

He was so lost in thought that, when he tripped on some uneven ground, he almost fell flat on his face. Sam’s amused snort bounced off the trees, ricocheting up toward the canopy. The pain from Dean’s short nails cutting into his palms as he fisted his hands helped to keep his temper in check. Yeah, even he had to admit, his fuse was short these days. God damn it. Maybe his friggin’ blood sugar was low. They should’ve stopped for food before they started their own personal episode of Survivorman.

“You could’ve warned me! This might be your natural habitat, Sasquatch, but some of us are civilized people.”

Sam feigned laughter. “Yeah, yeah. Anyone ever tell you not quit your day job?”

“Now why the hell would I do that?” Dean breathed deeply, trying to shake out some of the tension that was making his neck stiff. “The benefits and 401K package are friggin’ awesome.”

Sam’s answering smile was soft, and his eyes crinkled gently. He looked every inch by massive inch Dean’s baby brother. Something must have betrayed Dean’s thoughts, because Sam’s patented Dr. Phil face quickly dropped into place, and he slowed his pace.

“You okay, Dean? It’s just-“ and he spoke quickly to cut off Dean’s ready protest, “you’ve been especially… touchy… lately.”

Dean kept his eyes trained ahead, and fought against the instinct to just brush his brother off. “Yeah, it’s just, you know.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Everything. First Carthage, then all the shit with Famine, and Bobby. And Cas’ search for God.” He shook his head. “I mean, you’d think the dude was a reformed convict or something.”

A distant, resounding crack of thunder rebounded through the forest, followed by the sound of branches snapping directly to their left. They both stopped at the sounds, instantly on alert. A young doe stepped cautiously from the cover of a nearby cluster of scrub-pine, sniffing the air. When she spotted them, she froze, staring them down, mirror images. Then, without warning, she flipped her tail and sprung away, disappearing into the brush. Dean released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“He should be here, man,” he sighed, resigned.

Sam’s mouth quirked solemnly. “Maybe. But we’re not the only ones with a lot on our plate, Dean.” Sam jerked his chin once, inviting Dean to continue walking. “I think he’s doing his best.”

“Maybe,” Dean replied, echoing Sam’s words. He shook his head, trying to clear the dark fog that was taking up permanent real estate in his head. His smile was genuine when he offered, “We oughta teach him some people skills. The guy is really awkward, Sammy.”

“Well,” Sam grinned, “it is Cas.”

The air felt lighter then, and, for the first time since Castiel came to them in the parking lot, Dean felt like he could breathe deeply and freely.

In the distance, the yellow police tape fluttered in the light breeze, and the white tent protecting the corpse was a shining beacon in the gloomy light. Their pace picked up as they strode to the crime scene side by side, confident, and perhaps just a little bit hopeful.

 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

 

It didn’t take much convincing to get the cop standing guard to give them time alone at the scene. The prospect of a steaming cup of hot coffee and taking a half-hour break in a warm squad was so alluring that the guy was practically out of sight by the time they took their FBI badges out of their pockets. Dean took a mental note for future reference. The brothers turned to each other simultaneously.

“Well, what’dya say, Dr. Grant?” Dean lifted the flap of the tent, bowing and gesturing with his free hand. “Ladies first.”

Sam looked unimpressed. “Jurassic Park? Really, Dean?”

Dean smirked. Rolling his eyes, Sam stooped to fit through the opening. His voice was amplified by the tent when he added, “And that’s paleontology. Not the same thing.”

Dean followed his brother into the small shelter, the plastic flap heavy with damp as it smacked shut behind him. “Eh, close enough.” As Sam peeled away the rumpled blue tarp covering the body, the smell of decay hit Dean hard, and he gagged, eyes watering. “Woo! He is ripe though.” He bit at his lip, considering the scene before them. “So. This is him.” Dean cocked his head and leaned forward, hands on his knees, to get a closer look. “I don’t know. I’m disappointed. I was expecting more horny hats, less… normal dead guy.”

Sam followed suite, crouching close to the corpse, hand covering his nose, eyes crinkled in disbelief. “Dean. There is no way this guy can be 1000 years old.”

There would be no disagreement from him. The body was in good condition, for a supposed millennium-old dead guy, of course. The corpse was sitting up, its back against a rocky outcropping tucked between a cluster of large pine trees. The skin was mostly gone, insect activity and the natural process of decay evident. Muscle tissue was present and relatively intact, hair long and patchy in random sections on the corpse’s scalp. Its collarbone peeked through scant skin tissue, yellowed and exposed to the elements because of its weathered tunic. Its eyes were sunken, and that was remarkable, because it did still have eyes, icy blue – rivaling Castiel’s, Dean thought – readily visible because it lacked eyelids. The result was a creepy, lifeless stare that had Dean enthralled, made adrenaline course through his veins. “Shit,” he breathed.

Sam dug at a stick partially hidden beneath the sparse underbrush, using it to lift away the corpse’s tattered clothing. “Dean.”

“Sam. What the hell?”

The body, now fully visible, had a large tree root growing through its stomach, anchoring it to the ground. As Sam peeled away the rest of the tarp, they both sat back, dumbfounded. From its elbows down, it was completely buried in compact earth. Someone had scooped away some of the soil in the assumed vicinity of corpse’s lap, exposing a burnished, golden, curved object. And yeah, Dean had to admit, that did kind of look like the bell of a horn. Huh.

They turned to look at each other, aborted explanations falling from their lips as “um’s” and “ah’s.” Sam tucked his hair behind his ears. “You first.”

“Why me?”

“Age before beauty.” Some days, Dean was disappointed that he didn’t raise Sam to respect his elders. Jerk.

“Okay. Let’s ignore the massive tree foot and the fact that all of this,” he pounded a fist against the exposed soil, “is pretty solid. Wait, who tries to bury a guy sitting up?”

Sam’s nose scrunched. “I’m still stuck on the tree growing through the guy.”

“Yeah.”

“Dean.” Sam brushed his hand through his hair again, a habit he’d had since he’d been old enough to hide the bowl and scissors from Dean. “This guy can’t have been dead for more than two or three weeks. But it looks,” he gestured widely at the scene before them, “like he’s been here for, for- a long, long time.”

Dean stood up, knees cracking, groaning as the muscles in his back pulled unpleasantly. “So, what do you wanna do? Do we follow this up, or dig up that shiny thing and run?”

Sam looked up at him, worrying his lip between his teeth. “We’re here for the horn,” he said decisively. “Let grab that and get out of here. Once we know what it is, we can keep an eye on what they’re doing here.”

“Okay, then,” he replied, bending to pick up his bag. From it, he pulled two garden spades. “How far do you think we have to dig before we get to China?” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. Sam rolled his eyes, and reached for a shovel.

 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

 

“Well, that wasn’t too painful,” Dean conceded as they ducked out of the tent. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. We’re gonna have to burn these clothes, ‘cause there’s no way we’re getting that stink out of them.”

Sam sniffed cautiously at his jacket. “Ugh. Yeah.” The disgusted look on his face almost made up for the fact that Dean would probably never enjoy the scent of, well, anything, ever again. “Okay, let’s see it.”

Dean held their prize carefully, lifting it to try and catch some of the murky, stippled light. Far from being in a hopeless state, the horn was in excellent condition. It wasn’t anything fancy: the bell end was smooth, the gold hammered thin, and from it protruded a slightly curved grip. It reminded Dean of a steer’s horn, if they grew as burnished, galvanized metal. It was flawless, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he would have thought it brand-new.

“It’s… beautiful,” Sam breathed, reaching out to touch it. Dean hummed in agreement. He couldn’t stop running his fingers over its smooth curves. Maybe it was because Cas planted the seed that this was the real deal, but he could swear he could feel a gentle, pulsing power exuding from the feather-light artifact. It kind of reminded him of Castiel. Maybe the angel was onto something after all.

“Okay,” Dean exhaled, surprised his voice was shaking slightly. “Let’s get out of here before Sergeant Pepper gets back.” Dean wrapped the horn in his jacket, and placed it gently in his pack. Sam threw his own bag over his shoulder, and together they started walking back toward the trail.

The tent was still glowing in the distance when a gust of wind burst at their backs, blowing up debris in a swirl around them, the sound of snapping branches cracking loudly through the trees. They stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“I don’t suppose that’s Bambi again, is it?” Dean asked, hopeful.

“Give us the Horn, Winchesters.”

“I don’t think Bambi sounded like James Earl Jones, Dean.”

They reluctantly turned around, hands hovering over their guns. Standing there was a tall, blonde woman, flanked on either side by two men and two women. They stood with a soldier’s posture, the lines of their sharply pressed suits mirrored in their stiff stance, and their eyes were shining blue.

“Oh, man, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

The blonde woman – angel – stepped forward, holding out her hand. “We will not hurt you, if you hand over the Horn of Gabriel.” Her saccharine voice belied the menace in her words.

“Did’ya hear that, Sammy? Hear that ‘if’?”

“Sure did. Sounded like a thinly veiled threat to me.” When they drew their weapons, the angels chuckled.

“Please. You know that won’t stop us.” The other angels stalked outwards slowly, moving to surround the brothers. “You are the true vessels. We will not kill you. But the human body is surprisingly resilient.” Her steadfast gaze turned stormy.

Dean smirked darkly, “Believe me, sister, I know.” Beside him, he heard Sam whisper Castiel’s name. He tried to stall.

“What do you want with this thing anyway? I take you as more the electric keyboard type.” Sam and Dean crowded into each other, back to back, as the angels closed in. “Ever hear of Josie and the Pussycats?”

“ENOUGH!” she yelled, and branches fell from the canopy as the ground shook. With a flick of her wrist, Sam and Dean went flying through the air in opposite directions, their flight broken as they thumped painfully into broad tree trunks, coming to rest on the damp ground. Sam groaned loudly. Dean gasped, unable to catch his breath, and his ribs protested sharply. Two angels hefted Sam up, restraining him, while the three others approached Dean. He clutched his backpack to his throbbing chest, defiance evident in the set of his jaw and the shine of his eyes. He met their stares without fear as they leaned over him, closer and closer, until he could see nothing of the canopy or sky above.

“Give. It. To. Me,” she spat, deadly.

When he drew a breath to speak, Dean sputtered, spitting blood onto the an angel’s immaculate leather shoes. “Over my dead body.”

Suddenly, an unholy, inhuman roar erupted from somewhere in the forest. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, followed by an incredible thud, as though a bomb had gone off nearby. The forest was once again still and silent by the time the reverberations stopped.

The angels looked at each other in confusion, and that did nothing to quiet the alarm bells ringing in Dean’s head. Although that might also be the probable concussion.

Sam spoke for him. “What the hell in going on?”

The blonde angel addressed her company: “We have to leave.” Lunging at Dean, she hauled him up by his tie and swung hard at his face. He could feel his cheekbone crunch underneath her bony fist. The sharp pain distracted him only for a moment, but it was all the angel needed to grab the bag from his loose fingers. Sam fought against the two angels still holding him, but they didn’t budge. Blood streamed from Dean’s nose, and he snorted wetly.

“Doesn’t matter, you bitch. You’re still not gonna win.”

She grinned cruelly. “To the contrary, precious human, I think you’ll find-“

Dean’s eyes widened as, from behind, an arm went around her neck, and then another grabbing at the hand holding Dean’s pack. The stench of decay in the air was sudden and overwhelming, and as all of the angels converged on the creature gripping their leader, Sam, now forgotten, scrambled toward Dean.

“Holy shit, Sammy. Is that…?”

Sam didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The creature before them had skin peeling from its exposed arms as it struggled with the angels, its cloak swinging wildly in wind. It sliced at the angels with an old, rusty blade, and its permanent ice-blue stare was furious and murderous.

“Leif Eriksson,” Sam breathed, tucked close to Dean.

Their undead Viking friend was no match for five angels, however, and they overwhelmed it, like piranhas with, well, a corpse. Dean pushed himself up from the ground with a raw moan. Sam shoved his hands underneath Dean’s arms, heaving him up a touch too quickly. Sam stooped so Dean could drape an arm over his shoulder, and together they tried to limp away from the fight.

As they turned to look back at the melee, they were shocked when it seemed as though the angels were struggling to keep the upper hand. The clinging stink of rot grew – unbelievably – stronger and, before their eyes, the creature at the center of the angel smack-down doubled in size. Then tripled. The angels paused in their attack, gaping in disbelief. He couldn’t blame them; he and Sam wore matching expressions. _Hell, at its current height, it’d probably even give Sam a run for his money_ , Dean thought hysterically.  

The creature drew back its massive hand, rustling the newest branches of the centuries-old trees, and, swinging down, bowled over the angels crouching battle-ready at his feet. As she tumbled head over heel, the blonde angel lost her hold on Dean’s pack. No sooner had her fingers unclenched from their death-grip around the strap, did the creature return to its normal size, and snatch it up. Three angels were already back on their feet, blades drawn, and they each swiped at the creature in a choreographed assault. Its screech was horrific, rivaling that of any dying monster Dean’s hands ever had the privilege of ending.

Then, in a wisp of sooty black smoke, the undead Viking – and wasn’t that a phrase Dean never thought would cross his mind – and the backpack containing the Horn disappeared. The angels, not even bloodied or out of breath, looked to each other incredulously. With a great gust of wind they were gone, leaving behind only the crushing stink of death.

The brothers gulped in air, aching with each breath. Blood dripped into Dean’s eyes, but he barely noticed as they shuffled to the space where the creature and angels vanished. Sam searched around, tipped his face to the canopy, hands going to top of his head to tug at his hair. Dean limped aimlessly, an arm clutched tight around his tender ribs. The brothers turned toward each other, the silence heavy.

The air crackled around them suddenly, and a figure appeared between them.

“Well, did you recover the horn?” Castiel asked, eyes wide and earnest.

Twin blank stares looked back at him. Cas met their gazes carefully, each brother in turn, as if they were live wires just waiting to be tripped. Dean snuffled loudly, and spat foamy red onto ground.

The angel hesitated.

“I take it I’ve missed something.”

 

 


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay updated at [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy-tales)!

**** _  
_

_The slumbering wolf does not get the ham.  
-_ _Norse Proverb_

 

For all that Heaven’s been a royal pain in his ass ever since he woke up in a box six feet under and forty Hell-years older, he had to admit that there was one advantage to having a creature of the celestial persuasion in your camp (and you can quote him on this one, because there was currently no other benefit that was capable of piercing the red veil of rage clouding his vision): they were a hell of a lot better than aspirin.

“Anything yet?” Dean was using his restored health to tear a path back to the Impala, leaving Sam and Castiel to trail a safe distance behind him.

“One bar.” Sam had been doing his best impression of the Verizon Man ever since Cas healed them in the aftermath of _whatever the fuck that was_. He felt it was safe enough to now categorize today as _one of those days_. His fingers itched for a bottle. Maybe two. His treadless shoes slipped in the mud, and he fell down hard on his knees. Yup, today was a double-fisting day if he ever saw one.

Growling, he pushed himself up from the ground, holding off Cas and Sam’s concerned advances with a dark glare.  “Let’s just get to the goddamn car.”

“I could – “ Cas reached out toward them both, his offer apparent in his outstretched hands.

Dean jerked back from him violently, and for all that they teased the angel about his lack of people skills, Castiel understood the meaning behind _that_ particular action well enough. He frowned, letting his arms fall limp at his sides.  They measured each other up as Sam scowled at his phone.

“No service, Dean.”

Dean turned on his heels without a word. Sam hesitated before following, taking a moment to look at Castiel, who was still staring, eyes locked on Dean’s retreating figure.

 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

 

By the time Sam’s (muddy) and Castiel’s (pristine) wingtips hit the pavement of the parking lot, Dean was already wrestling with his belt and pants at the rear of the Impala.

“Um, dude, what the hell?” Sam asked, his face frozen in a disturbed gawk. He stopped at the front of the car, using it as a barrier to protect him from his brother’s seemingly determined display of public nudity. Castiel, on the other hand, continued walking, unfazed, until he stood at Dean’s side.

Dean swiped through the scant empty space between him and Cas, as though he could propel the angel away if he flapped his arm fast enough. “Damn it, Cas! A little room here, Jesus.” He had forgotten to toe out of his shoes first, so he abandoned his pants around his ankles, setting to work on his tie instead. “I friggin’ reek, man! I can’t take a breath without wanting to puke.” His tie flew into the adjacent parking space. “You do too, but I’m sure it’s just tough to make out over the everyday stink.” Ah, there it was. Bitch-face cometh.

“Whatever, man, I’m calling Bobby.” Sam walked a short distance away from them, but didn’t venture from the pavement.

“And you –“ he angled his head toward Cas as he worked at the buttons of his shirt “—if you’re not gonna get lost, can you at least turn around?” Castiel didn’t budge.

“Are you all right?” Cas asked so quietly that the words cracked as they fell from his lips.

No, he was not all right. He sniffed at his undershirt, debating if it was worth saving. He and Sam dealt with dead things all the time. If he had a dollar for every grave he’s dug up in his lifetime, he could’ve probably paid for Sammy’s law school ten times over. But this – thing – whatever it was, that putrid stink it carried, was the worst he’d ever encountered. In life, that is.

It’s been a while since he returned to the land of the living, but Hell still hadn’t gotten the memo. Don’t get him wrong; 99% of the time, he was completely fine. But he was learning – yeah, still learning – that he had triggers that could set his stomach turning and chest heaving. The rare occasions when they’re on a case and Sam yells for him, short, urgent, on the edge of panic. When he hears a dog bark, that fierce, rapid snarling. The smell of rot, of thick, congealed blood. Black earth wedged beneath his fingernails, the heady smell of wet soil in his nostrils. The times Cas stares at him like he knows that these things don’t just freak him out, but poke at that dark, sinister thing that is still sleeping, nestled deep in his belly.

Like he’s doing now.

The angel didn’t flinch, just blinked owlishly, at the glare Dean tossed at him as he worked at his tangled dress pants. Finally free, he fished the keys out the pocket and threw open the trunk. He punched his duffel bag once, grabbing at the material roughly. When Castiel moved to inch closer to him, Dean lashed out.

“No, I am not fucking all right! We got jumped by a dick-squad of your brothers and sisters, and then I saw an undead Viking zombie go all Marshmallow Man before he disappeared into thin air with the goddamn trumpet thing that, based on the response of the Frequent Flier Brigade, might actually be something we could’ve used to stop the fucking Apocalypse!” He stood toe-to-toe with the angel, his voice low and challenging. “And where the hell were you, man? Sam called for you when those dicks got the drop on us. What the hell took so long, huh? If you’da been there, we wouldn’t be standing here right now.” And Dean had to blink away that particular visual: Castiel, back ramrod straight, immaculate and unwavering; and Dean, standing in his underwear and dirty black socks, grime smudged high across his cheekbones. Yeah, okay. So, it was hard to look formidable when you’re half-naked in a parking lot.

“You know what? Screw it. Screw all of it.”

He tugged roughly at his duffel, and in doing so, spilled some of the loose contents of the trunk onto the ground.

“God damn it!”

In the distance, Sam turned, concerned. He began to wander back toward them, phone still pressed to his ear. Dean knelt on the blacktop, the coarse surface biting into his knees, angrily scooping together items that rolled under the car. He waved the angel off with a warning, “Leave it, Cas,” which was promptly ignored, and countered with a firm: “Dean. Stop.”

He paused, keeping his eyes trained on a woven fabric pouch resting against the back tire. His voice lost its venom as he repeated, “Leave it, Cas.” A bone-deep exhaustion flooded through him, his shoulders drooping with sudden weariness. He wanted to sleep for a week. Maybe a year. _Actually, just wake me up when the Apocalypse is over. Then we can all go to Disney World. Bet Sammy would scream like a girl at the Haunted Mansion. Cas would be one of those assholes that spent all their time at the Epcot Center. And Bobby would just park it at the beer garden and threaten all the mascots._ Heh.

Cas let him off the hook, sitting back on his heels, quiet, as Dean gathered the objects into a pile.

“Okay, Bobby, thanks a lot.” Sam’s shadow fell over them as he leaned against the taillight. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.” Dean looked up when Sam fell silent, and watched his mouth quirk in a small smile. “We’re always careful, you know that.” The smile grew wider. “Yeah, yeah. See you soon.” There was a gentle beep signaling the end of the call. Sam perfunctorily rubbed his phone against his hip to clean the screen.

“Well?”

“Theories, maybe. Ultimately? He’s got no clue.”

Dean grunted. “Awesome.” As Sam recounted his conversation with Bobby to a rapt Castiel, he turned his attention back to the wayward items, tossing them into the trunk. A stake that needed sharpening. A few small pieces of wrought iron they “borrowed” from various abandoned church yards that Dean intended on welding together when he had some free time and a torch. A glass jar, now cracked, empty save for a glistening rosary. A small, sealed wooden box of Wolfsbane. And, lastly, the palm-sized pouch – a large crimson cross stitched into each side of the rough material – that had fallen on its side near the tire. The drawstring of the pouch had come loose, causing its contents – coarse salt – to spill onto the blacktop.

“You get this from Bobby?” he asked, holding up the pouch for Sam to see as he ran his thumb over the smooth thread of the cross.

Sam paused in the middle of his monologue, nodding with a distracted, “Hmm? Yeah,” before turning back to Cas. Considering the pouch once more before placing it into the trunk, Dean levered himself off the ground, letting his hands linger the on cool metal of the Impala’s bumper. He could feel his blood pressure returning to normal as he smoothed his fingers against it. Could always count on Baby, yessir.

“So, the short of it is that Bobby’s pulling everything he has on Norse mythology.” Dean dug through his bag, pulling out jeans and a flannel shirt as Sam spoke. “He said he’d probably have it all together by the time we got there.”

“Are you kiddin’?” Dean dramatically snapped his jeans straight. “He’ll have everything figured out by the time we hit Ohio.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He looked down at Castiel, still crouched on the ground, seemingly deep in thought. “Hey. You okay there, Cas?”

He squinted at Sam. “Of course,” he said, pushing himself up gracefully.

“There we go,” Dean beamed, voice suffused with satisfaction. He took an exaggerated sniff at his newly donned shirt. “Downy Fresh!”

Sam shook his head at him. “You’re really damn lucky it’s a crappy day and no one was around to see your chicken legs.”

“Please. It’s a crime to deprive the general public of this” he gestured at himself “masterpiece. You might even say my body is… heavenly.” Sam groaned. “Hey, it’s the truth! Cas says he does God’s work, and he didn’t have to change a damn thing. That means perfection. Right, Cas?”

Cas absently hummed in agreement.

“Yes, Dean, okay,” Sam placated. “You are an Act of God.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother, and grabbed Sam’s duffel. “Think fast, Gigantor.” The force of the bag hitting his stomach knocked Sam back a step. “If you think you’re getting in my car wearing that smelly crap, you got another thing coming.” He closed the trunk so they could both rest their bags on top. Nearby, somewhere in the brush, they heard a distinct rustling.

Come to think of it, that cop would probably be wondering where the body got to, right about now. Dean knew he wouldn’t buy the whole “he must’ve needed to stretch his legs” routine. They never did.

 “Hey, hurry up. Don’t think you want Ranger Rick to catch you with your pants down. Besides, time’s a ’wasting.”

As they pawed hurriedly through their bags, they didn’t notice as Castiel saddled close. Dean only registered a warm hand cupping his shoulder and then, between one blink and the next, they were no longer standing next to the Impala in an abandoned parking lot of a Massachusetts state park, but in Bobby’s dimly lit study, duffel bags in hand, loose papers fluttering around their heads.

And speak of the Devil – or not, thanks anyway – Bobby sauntered into the room, a stack of tattered books in tow. “Well,” he said flatly, unfazed. “I take it I-80 was pretty clear today, huh?”

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean, his neurons having returned to their regularly scheduled programming, reverted to his default mode as of late: yelling.

“You were right.” Castiel let his hands slide off of the brothers’ shoulders. The introspection that had been lurking in his eyes since he appeared in the forest was gone, replaced with his usual stormy, determined glare.  “There is no time to waste.”

 

 


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay updated at [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy-tales)!

_No harvest is had without the first seed being sown.  
-_ _King Olaf Trygvisson’s Saga, c.8_

 

Dean let his head fall onto Bobby’s desk with a dull thud. He never believed that stuff about how “your face is going to get stuck like that,” but now, after hours of fruitlessly reading through text after text, he could feel his eyes going permanently cross-eyed.

“You okay there, Camille? Or do I need to get’cha a cool compress and tend to your dainty sensibilities?” Bobby didn’t look up from the large dog-eared stack of papers he had been huddled over for the better part of the past hour. Sam snorted. Jerk. Clearly, it was the Dean against the world today.

He sat up, rubbing his face dramatically. “Nope, nope. I’ll let you save that for Sammy. He left all his compresses and smelling salts in the Impala.” Sam sighed preemptively, knowing what was coming, as Dean pointedly raised his voice and continued, “And we’re never gonna see her again! ‘Cause we know what they do to cars that have been abandoned in parking lots, don’t we, Cas? Especially unlocked cars that have an arsenal in the friggin’ trunk!” Castiel, who had seemingly been keeping vigil at the kitchen window since they materialized in Bobby’s study, didn’t turn around.

“Yeah, Dean, we all got it. We got it the first time you said it. We got it the second, and the third, and the thirty-seventh time, too. Jesus,” Sam ground out, irritated.

“I just don’t understand why he couldn’t have zapped her – “

“Boys,” Bobby warned, and, man, did he have that dad-voice down to a science. Sometimes Dean felt sorry that Bobby never had a chance to have kids of his own. Other times, he was selfishly grateful, because it meant he and Sam got to have this. This, currently being the three of them huddled around Bobby’s desk in a weak parody of a séance: ragged books stacked high in the center, empty beer bottles standing in a ring around them, dripping with condensation. A few feet away, they had an angel playing the role of the indifferent spirit.

The brothers muttered their apologies in unison, looking back to their respective stacks of books and papers. Dean didn’t last five minutes before he was sighing loudly again, slamming his book shut.

“Dean…”

“Okay, Sam, I’m sorry, but c’mon! We’ve been doin’ this for hours, and what do we got to show for it?”

“A hell of a lot more than we had when we walked out of that forest.” Sam waved his notepad under Dean’s nose before reading from it. “We’re probably dealing with a draugr. Creature from Norse mythology. They’re kind of like ghosts, except not really.” Dean rolled his eyes and laid his head on the desk again. “Like ghosts, they choose to stay behind, usually because of the standard greed, selfishness, or unfinished business. Unlike ghosts, they keep their physical body after death. The big factor in determining whether or not someone may become a draugr is that they are not buried in a horizontal position.”

Bobby didn’t look up as he supplied, “Our guy was sittin’ up.”

Sam nodded emphatically. “Right; he was sitting up against those rocks and pinned there by that tree.” Scanning his notes, he continued, “A person can also become a draugr after being infected by one.”

“Walking Dead: Viking Edition,” Dean mumbled from the shelter of his arms.

“Draugr have superhuman strength, can increase their size at will, and have magical abilities that are equivalent to a witch’s –“

“I fuckin’ hate witches.”

“Including, but likely not limited to: shapeshifting, being able to see into the future, and controlling the weather. They can transform into wisps of smoke and, like this, they can travel through solid surfaces. Their presence is marked by an overwhelming smell of decay. Draugr are mainly supposed to stick around their grave and guard their treasure-“

“As it was custom to bury them with gifts or their own earthly possessions,” Bobby recited absently.

“And if someone disturbs their grave or steals their belongings, they go after them. Or sometimes draugr just want to cause problems, torture those that have wronged them in life. They aren’t mindless creatures; they’re said to be somewhat intelligent, but the extent of that isn’t know.” Sam dropped the notepad into his lap, finishing, “And they can dream-walk. Supposedly.”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Dean conceded. He lifted his head wearily. “But we don’t know who he was, where the hell he got to, what he was doing with the Horn, what the Horn does exactly, and I’m really starting to forget the reason why we even give a shit.”

“Apocalypse,” Bobby supplied helpfully, wetting a finger to turn a yellowed page.

Sam leaned back in his chair, wincing as something in his back popped. “Bobby, please don’t encourage him. He’s cranky because he didn’t sleep last night and then missed his nap this afternoon.”

Dean gave Sam a deadly look as he turned around to glare pointedly at Castiel’s back. “That’s right. Apocalypse. Hey, ain’t that right up your alley there, angel?” Dean’s face darkened when Cas didn’t respond.

“Just leave it alone, Dean,” Sam said under his breath.

“Like hell I am.” Dean pushed himself up from the chair and strode into the kitchen. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Castiel, looking out at the darkening sky.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Dean,” Cas growled quietly.

“How about,” Dean pushed roughly at Cas’ shoulder, turning them to face each other, “a little goddamned help?”

The angel scowled. “I told you back in the forest, Dean, that I didn’t know what that creature was. I now know as much about it as you do.” He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Dean. “And as for Gabriel’s Horn, I have told you all I know about it.”

“Yeah, yeah, trumpet of doom, signals the start of the Apocalypse. Anything else?”

Castiel looked away, shaking his head slowly as he replied, stilted, “Nothing that is currently relevant.”

Dean exhaled deeply as the flaring, mercurial anger he’d been feeling all day was doused with a thick mire of disappointment that settled heavily in his chest. “Why do I always feel like you’re keeping something from me, Cas? Huh? Can’t you ever just be straight with me, just once?”

Castiel met his gaze somberly, but didn’t answer. Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the counter to watch Sam and Bobby in the study, their low murmurs steadily trickling into the kitchen. “Anything on angel radio?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fan-friggin’-tastic.”

The angel swayed into the counter, close enough for Dean to feel the heat coming off of him. “It _is_ a development, though, Dean.” He looked out the window again, as if he was searching for something in the evening sky. “While my capabilities are not what they were, and despite being cut off from Heaven, I am still fundamentally connected to the Host. ‘Angel radio ’—” and Dean could help but smile at the angel’s use of air quotes “—still comes in. But now…” He trailed off meaningfully.

Dean looked up in realization. “Nothing.” Then, with a dull sense of horror, he asked, “Is it just you?”

“You mean, have I lost that ability?” Dean shrugged tightly. “No, I don’t think so.”

 _Thank fuck_. Dean released the breath he’d been nervously holding. “So do you think the radio silence means that they have the Horn?”

“I think they’re doing exactly as we’re doing: trying to track down the creature that possesses it, and attempting to do so without showing their hand.”

He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he could see Castiel’s fist stuffed into the pocket of his overcoat, unconsciously toying with something inside. “You are just itchin’ to cut outta here, aren’t you?” Cas looked up, guilt written in his creased features.

“Well, hell, Cas, don’t do us any fuckin’ favors.” Dean turned to wrestle open the refrigerator door, indiscriminately grabbing for the first bottle his fingers touched. “Sorry we’re boring you with the problem _you_ brought to us.  You wanna go back to the God search?” He slammed the door shut, hissing as he twisted the top off of what was definitely not a twist-off bottle. “Scram. We’ll send up a flare when the dick squad comes a’knocking, or we save the world. Whichever comes first.”

“Dean-“

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said, tossing back a mouthful of beer.

“Dean.” He clenched his jaw and leaned hard against the ridge of the counter, welcoming the biting pain in his lower back, refusing to look at Castiel. The angel sighed, but continued. “You asked me to search for any immediate indication of the Horn or the creature’s presence, and I did. You asked me to stay, and I have. I’ve provided the relevant details where I could, and I’ve been monitoring for any information coming out of Heaven.” He joined Dean in watching Sam and Bobby compare notes. “This,” he gestured widely with one hand, “is your area of expertise. Mine is elsewhere. Here, now, I am useless to you.”

 _I’m useless. I’m hapless, I’m hopeless,_ echoed dully in Dean’s head, making his stomach turn. The words were out of his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. “You ain’t useless, Cas.”

Castiel turned sharply, surprised, and yeah, he had to admit, that made him feel kind of crappy, that he had everyone braced for a fight or an insult these days. He took another long drag from his bottle, relishing the cool burn as it coursed down his throat. “Go on then,” he yielded softly, and, feeling awkward, turned away from him. “Do what you gotta do. We’ll let you know when we figure stuff out.”

For a moment, he thought Castiel had fluttered off immediately, the atmosphere was so still and silent. But when he turned back around the angel was still there, watching him with an indescribable expression.

“I tell you everything I can, Dean. If I keep something from you, it’s out of thought for your protection, and your family’s.” The air suddenly felt heavy, anticipatory, as it does before the first lightning strike of an evening summer storm. “It is never because I don’t trust you.”

And with that, the angel was gone.

“Dean!” Sam called.  His voice was thrumming with triumph and his eyes gleamed as he loped into the kitchen. “We found something.”

 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

  
“Gunnarr Fraenerson,” Dean pronounced dubiously, reading from Sam’s notebook. “Sounds like a Swedish porn star.” Images of brightly-marked IKEA bins full of DVDs with questionable covers but creative titles made him grin.

Sam muttered under his breath. “And you _would_ be the one to know that, wouldn’t you?”

Shuffling through the stack of papers Bobby and Sam presented to him, Dean pulled a dog-eared manuscript. He squinted at the untidy notes in the margins, hastily written in both an unfamiliar hand and Bobby’s own, before he recited a highlighted portion: 

  _And Gunnarr the Great, as was granted by pedi-gree,_  
 _Forsook his foes and friends alike, fading into the fog of the foreign land in folly,_  
 _His fate ne’er to be known,_  
 _And lo, the loot was lost._

He shook his head. “They call that poetry? And people – ” he threw a significant look at his brother “—like to give me hell about my worldly collections of ‘There Once Was A Man From Nantucket.’”

“It’s a Norse Epic, Dean. It ain’t supposed to rhyme,” Bobby said, his fingers running along the worn edge of his hat. “And your ‘worldly collections’ can hardly be classified as poetry.”

Dean smirked and leaned toward him. “You know you like it, Bobby,” he murmured conspiratorially, winking. Bobby’s narrowed eyes, the slight twitch of his mouth, were all the confirmation he needed.

“And anyway,” Sam continued pointedly, “it’s not like it’s one of the better known Sagas.”

Bobby huffed. “That’s a real generous way of sayin’ it ain’t very good, and if it were published today, it’d be on the discount shelf at Woolworth’s.” Twin blank expressions stared back at him. “Nevermind,” he sighed.

“So what you’re saying is, this one sucked?”

“Well, it’s not exactly ‘epic’ material.” Sam gestured at the passage Dean had just read aloud. “Would you want to read a story that had a good climax, and a solid ending,” – Sam hastily continued as Dean’s mouth turned up in a goofy grin – “Or would you rather hear about how some people had everything good going for them, and it all just fizzled out and ended with a ‘well, we don’t really know what happened?’”

“Okay, point taken,” Dean conceded. He held up the manuscript. “So, what’s this then?”

“Well, we lucked out there.” Sam reached over to retrieve the bundle of papers from Dean. “It’s a thesis, with translations and references and everything.”

“An _unfinished_ thesis. With unfinished translations, and sketchy references,” Bobby interjected. “But,” his chair groaned as he leaned back, “it sure as hell is better than nothing.”

Dean looked to Sam. “Why would someone do years of translating and research on a story that sucks, and that no one cares about?”

Sam shrugged. “Grad students,” he said conclusively, as if that answered everything.

“Okay, well. If our beauty school dropout didn’t stick around to finish this thing, I sure as hell ain’t gonna.” Dean clapped his hands together. “Cliff Notes, please.”

The sritch-srtich of Bobby rubbing at his beard filled the pause. “Short version? Near as we can tell, somewhere along the line, Gunnarr Fraenerson’s family got this magical golden horn during a raid. Made ‘em famous. Then, at some point, good ole Gunnarr, who was something of a putz, it seems, got the horn, and then disappeared into the abyss. Neither of ‘em were ever seen again. That is, until now. Maybe.” Bobby scowled as he shook each of the glittering beer bottles on his desk, finding every one empty. “Long version? We better learn some Viking.”

“But it seems like it could fit in with what Cas told us this morning, so it’s a pretty good start,” Sam finished.

As Dean nodded, he felt a bit more settled, could feel some of the fog clear from his mind. He always felt a sort of tight anxiety, a lingering frustration at the beginning of a case where they were blind, stumbling around, hands outstretched in barest hopes of touching something, anything. But just give him a lead, a connection, a direction to fire into. It’s one thing to walk into the darkness unknown, but to walk in with some knowledge, and some focus: that’s all he needed. Tentative though that philosophy was these days.

“So it looks like this may be our guy,” he murmured, sliding his abandoned notepad from underneath some scattered papers. “Good. Okay, team. Let’s dig in.”

Bobby’s palms thudded against the desk as he levered himself up from his chair. “Timeout first, team.” He gathered the empty bottles, tucking them under his arms. “We need to replenish the water station.”

Dean and Sam watched as Bobby passed between them, and then looked to one another.

“Vikings, Sammy? Really?”

Sam grinned widely. “Viking zombies on the run with a trumpet of heavenly origin that is most likely a weapon of mass destruction for celestial Louis Armstrongs.”

Dean’s face fell soft, his mouth quirking in a gentle smile. “Ever long for the olden days, brother? Go gank a werewolf, burn a cursed object or two?”

As Sam began to answer, a huge crash sounded from the kitchen, followed closely by Bobby’s startled exclamation. The brothers shot up from their seats, knocking the chairs over with a dull _thunk, thunk_ in their haste. They briefly paused on the threshold, assessing the sight before them: Bobby on one side of the kitchen, a man-sized indentation in the wall on the other, as if something had slammed into it at a high speed. That something was currently sprawled on the floor, bloodied hands tracing sloppy sigils onto the tiles as dust from the drywall floated in a halo around his head. Dean dimly heard Sam inhale sharply above the pounding in his ears, and that set him into motion toward Cas, who was pushing himself into a sitting position, leaving a trail of ruddy handprints behind him. Sam was right on his heels, and they knelt down on either side of the ragged angel, supporting him.

“Cas, what the hell? Are you okay?” Adrenaline still had Dean’s heart beating double-time, and concern made his fingers dig hard into Cas’ arm, but the angel didn’t flinch. Thick lines of blood dripped sluggishly from jagged cuts on the bridge of Castiel’s nose and above his eye as he clutched at them both.

“Dean,” he breathed, smearing crimson absently against Dean’s knee. “I found him.”

 

 


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay updated at [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/tagged/tardisy-tales)!

_Better to fight and fall than to live without hope.  
-_ _Volsunga Saga, c.12_

“Ow!”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a sucky patient?”

Castiel glared at Dean with the same ferocity he used to square off with the most terrifying of Hell-spawn. Unfortunately, it had nowhere near the desired effect, as Dean didn’t drop the first-aid supplies and run screaming as he’d obviously hoped. Dean only shook his head disapprovingly at Cas, and tipped the bottle of astringent into a bloodied wad of cloth, pressing it to the cut on his nose. Cas hissed at the sting, but Dean didn’t let up on the pressure.

“Deal with it, dude,” Dean declared. “We can’t just let you walk around looking like a crime scene. Until your angel mojo is up to snuff – “

“My ‘angel mojo’ is fine,” he insisted grumpily, swatting at Dean’s hand. “I just need a moment to recover.”

 _Like you’ve ever needed time to recover before_. The worried thought gentled his actions slightly, and he reached down to draw Castiel’s hand up to his face, encouraging him to hold the cloth himself. Cas watched him warily, but obeyed without comment. Dean rummaged around in the kit for butterfly stitches and set to work on the cut above the angel’s eye. From their perch on the couch, he could hear the _clink_ of dishes and silverware as Sam and Bobby threw together sandwiches in the kitchen. Castiel hadn’t protested when they told him everything could wait five minutes while they got some much-needed grub in their stomachs and Dean tended to his injuries that seemed slow to heal, details which would have been enough to sound the alarm bells in Dean’s head.

But the surprise in Cas’ voice at finding he couldn’t heal the self-inflicted wounds trailing up his arms, and the cuts on his face –

_“Hey, Cas, quit leaking on my floor. Gallons of stain remover ain’t cheap. And they always ask questions when you buy in bulk.”_

_“I. Um.” Between Sam and Dean, Cas wavered on his feet. Dean’s hand flew to the small of Cas’ back to steady him as Sam shot a concerned look over the top of the angel’s bowed head. “It must have been the, um. The landing. I’ve healed my other injuries, I just –“_

_“You. Food,” Bobby said firmly, pointing at Sam. “You, fix him up or you’re gonna be the one scrubbing my floors.”_

Apparently, Bobby’s dad-voice didn’t just work on the resident humans, but was highly effective on nebulous celestial beings wearing meatsuits, as well. Dean jumped as Cas nudged gently at his bicep.

“Dean.” His tone of voice implied that it was not the first time he called his name.

Dean tore open the bandage wrapper, and turned to Cas, humming his acknowledgement.

“Are _you_ okay?” It had to be a record, the number of times Cas had asked after him today.

It was difficult to avoid Cas’ patient gaze as he prodded at the cut bisecting the angel’s eyebrow, but Dean had a lot of practice. He bit at his lower lip in concentration, pointedly ignoring the question as he pressed the edges of the wound together, and set to work applying the bandages.

“You’re good at this.” Castiel’s slow puffs of breath were warm against his arm, helping to ease the anxiety he felt at his friend’s apparent lack of power.

“Yeah, well,” Dean smoothed some stray hair back from Cas’ forehead, away from the sticky surface of the bandages. “I’ve had a hell of a lot of practice.”

How many times had he done this for Sammy? Bobby? For his dad? Jo and Ellen and – Sam entered the room, three plates balanced expertly in his arms, before the list turned into a requiem instead of a morbid reminiscence.

“Dinner is served, gentlemen.” He gave an exaggerated bow, offering two plates to the pair.

Dean rubbed his hands against his jeans before reaching out to take the sandwiches from Sam. “You know, if this whole stopping the Apocalypse thing works out, you oughta try out to be a bellhop. You know, with the little hat…” He trailed off as his brother feigned laughter over his shoulder.

“Hahaha. And you oughta try out to be a comedian, since you think you’re so damn funny all of the time.” Sam uprighted one of the fallen chairs, and set up across from them, tearing into his thick sandwich. “Oh, Cas. I almost forgot,” he said around a mouthful, digging into his pocket. “Here. Just in case.” He tossed him a small white bottle, which Cas caught with one wrapped hand.

“What’s this for?” He rolled the bottle from side to side, studying it dubiously.

“Painkillers. Just, if you’ve got any –“

Dean snatched the bottle from Castiel’s hand and stuffed it smoothly into the front of his flannel.

“Dude! What the hell—“

“He doesn’t need it.” _He bit back his surprise as he shook the orange pill bottle. The rumble of the engine and squeak of the Jeep’s chassis didn’t cover Cas’ genuine offer of: “You want some?”_

“Dean, it’s just—“

“ _Sam_. I said he doesn’t need it.”

Castiel toyed with the damp cloth as he watched the volley, visibly confused. Sam stared back at Dean with a similar expression, silent, yet Dean could still read the _What the fuck is with you lately?_ written plainly across his face. Dean shook his head once, sharply, at his brother, then took the cloth from Cas, exchanging it with one of the plates resting on his lap.

Castiel moved to give it back to him, reminding them with an air of frustration that “I don’t eat.” At Dean’s stormy glance, he wisely set the plate back onto his own lap, and stubbornly picked at the bread as if to placate him.

“Well, if we’re done with that lovely interlude, can we get to the reason why I’ve gotta go pick up some new drywall this weekend – assuming the end of the world holds out, of course?” Bobby strode into the room, his own plate and four bottles in tow.

“I don’t know, Bobby,” Dean smirked as he reached to claim two of the beers. “Think of the sales.”

 “You got a point there, son.” Bobby clinked his bottle against Dean’s, and then used it to point at Castiel. “Start talkin’.”

“Well, when I left, I meant to continue my search for God. I was in Morocco when I heard it.”

Sam cocked his head. “It?”

“Angel radio. It, uh, came back online briefly. “ He paused as Dean handed him an open bottle, taking it without comment at his warning glare. “I don’t think they meant for it to happen.”

“And?”

“And,” Cas continued, “It was enough to indicate that they made significant progress in regards to the Horn’s whereabouts. So… I went to Heaven.” He appraised the bottle briefly, then, apparently arriving at a decision, tipped the mouth to his lips and took a long drag.

Dean gaped at him incredulously. “Wait. You went into enemy territory? Alone? Without saying anything?”

“Yes?”Cas ventured.

Dean’s mouth worked a few times as he turned more fully toward the angel at his side. “And you didn’t see anything wrong with that?” He felt like he was talking to a kid. A billion year old kid with an apparent death wish.

Castiel stared at him for a few moments, the air around them sparking. “No, Dean. I didn’t. And I don’t. I knew the risk, and it was worth it.” His mouth was set in a stubborn line and when he narrowed his eyes at Dean, it felt like a challenge.

Whatever the angel saw in Dean’s face that had raised his hackles, his brother had seen too, because Sam, ever the referee, waved him off. “Dean. Just let him finish. It’s fine.”

“It isn’t fine,” Dean ground out.

“It’s fine for now,” he replied, and, not for the first time, Dean thought warring nations could learn a thing or two from Sam. Then again, they could probably learn _a lot_ from his little brother, none of it relevant to mediation, and everything to do with all things toothy and mean.

Dean sat back as Bobby cocked a discretionary eyebrow at him. “Fine,” he said, turning his attention to his sandwich, voice dripping sticky-sweet. “Go on, Cas.”

“As I was saying. I returned to Heaven. Carefully, and without detection.” He emphasized the latter pointedly, glancing in Dean’s direction.

“How do you sneak into Heaven without detection?” Bobby leaned forward, curious.

“Through a back door.”

“Really,” he said, skeptical. “Heaven’s got a back door?”

Castiel’s eyes were wide and serious, as though he was imparting some vital lesson they’d be tested on later. “Doesn’t every place have a back door?” Bobby seemed to consider it as Castiel continued. “Being so close to the Host, I was able to overhear their conversation and gain some relevant information.”

“And then you got caught pressin’ your ear against the door.” Sam sighed at Dean’s snide aside. Castiel tilted his head, which was apparently angel-speak for _does not compute_. “They caught you listening. It’s why you did your best impression of the Kool-Aid Man in the kitchen and then left all that fancy finger-painting on Bobby’s floor.”

“Ah, yes.” His tone was tentative, as though he was only half-certain as to what Dean was saying. “I may have gotten a little over-zealous and showed my hand a bit. They did… notice me,” he conceded. “But it was worth it.”

“Great!” Sam, compensating for Dean, was overly encouraging. “So, are you gonna tell us where the Horn and our Viking are?”

“In time.”

Dean could feel his blood pressure rising. “No, Cas, how about you tell us now. Now is good. Now is best.” A scrunched expression that he sometimes read as _Oh, poor human, just sit back and let evolution do some more work_ was his only response. Dean looked to Sam and Bobby for help; Bobby answered his silent plea.

“Uh, what we mean, Cas, is that we’ve got some leads we’d like to explore, and since this is kind of a pressing matter and all, we can reminiscence about the great escape later. Tell us where he is, and we’ll figure it out.”

“In time,” Cas repeated more forcefully, and Dean wondered if he skimped on healing the brain damage he undoubtedly acquired when he crashed into the wall. _Always wear a helmet when traveling at supersonic speeds._

“Cas,” he said slowly, making sure to enunciate every syllable. “We need the location now. Now. Not ‘in time.’ Now. Before the Rocket Men get there first.”

Castiel turned to Dean, parroting his speech pattern. “Dean. In time.” He held up a hand as Dean was gearing up for Round Three. “They’re lost _in time_.”

“ _In time_ for what?” Bobby asked haltingly, unbelieving. Sam paused mid-chew.

“In time, _time_.” Cas cautiously looked at each of them, sitting in stunned silence, as though they were gradually losing their minds right before his eyes. “They are in the past.”

There was a beat before Dean blurted violently: “Oh, come on! You can’t be serious?”

“I am serious.” Cas brightened inexplicably, then added: “And don’t call me Shirley.”

“I don’t— _what did you say_?” Talk about a one-two punch. Dean felt like he was experiencing some weird full-body whiplash.

Sam swallowed too quickly, but still gasped out a “Wait, what?” around a coughing fit. Bobby, eyes fixed on Castiel, reached out automatically to thump him hard on the back.

Castiel leaned forward, murmured out of the side of his mouth, “It’s from that movie Dean likes, Sam.” He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

“That isn’t what he meant, Cas!” Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. Maybe this was just one of those dreams he had after a bad batch of tacos. He opened his eyes; nope. Dammit. “How are they in the past? I thought only angels could do that?”

“They seem to be a bit confused about that as well,” Castiel admitted. “The consensus appears to be that being in close contact with such a powerful weapon of Heaven for so many years is giving him an…” he trailed off, struggling for the proper phrasing.

“Extra oomph?” Bobby supplied.

“Yes, exactly,” he nodded, encouraged that at least one of the trio still had functioning neurons. “The creature is powerful in its own right. But being exposed to the Horn’s latent power for a millennia, and maintaining its possession; there is connection between them now, and it is aiding his escape.”

“But.” Dean’s head was spinning. Based on his brother’s lack of response, so was Sam’s. “Why the past?”

Tipping his head toward Dean, Castiel said, “That’s a good question. And one I don’t think they have an answer to. However,” he scanned the room meaningfully before returning his heavy, ancient gaze to Dean.

“What? Us?”

“I told you before, Dean.” The way his voice pitched low, private, made the world around Dean narrow to Castiel, helped give him much-need calm, focus. “This is _your_ area of expertise.” He blinked slowly, as if to give Dean a moment to catch up before asking, “Have you found anything further about the identity of the draugr yet?”

He cleared his throat softly, casting his eyes away from his friend. “Um. Yeah. Actually.” He snapped his fingers at Sam. “Hey,” he said, more loudly. Sam shook his head and blinked rapidly, shaking himself from his Castiel-induced stupor.

“Yeah?”

“Give Cas the rundown, will ya?”

As Sam set down his half-eaten sandwich to retrieve the manuscript and his notes, Dean settled back against the cushions, letting Sam’s voice fade into a low drone as he processed everything that happened since they left New York that morning. Jesus Christ; what a mess. The brief remembrance of the fleeting hope he felt earlier, the one lasted only as long as he held the Horn in his hands, flared in his chest. It died as quickly as it had come, and that chill that he felt down to his bones, more and more frequently, was even more apparent than it was before. What would they think: Bobby, Sam, Cas? What would they do if they knew that, in moments just like this, he flirted with the idea of: what if? What if he said yes to Michael? What would they do if they knew, with increasing frequency, that he lay in bed at night, sleep far outside of his desperate grasp, rolling the word around on his tongue, testing it between his teeth. That he was doing it right now, as they huddled together next to him; as Sam’s familiar murmur filled the room; as the homey smell of Bobby’s study filled his nostrils; as Castiel’s thigh pressed gently against his knee. _Yes._ Just to do something. _Yes._ Just to end it. _Yes._ Because there was no hope.

_Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading; see you soon! = )
> 
> [Side-note: In between working on this story, I am training and participating in my first marathon to benefit Random Acts. Interested in supporting this fantastic charity? Please visit my [Crowdrise/Random Acts fundraising site](http://www.crowdrise.com/agonyofde-feet/fundraiser/agonyofde-feet) to learn more! Thank you so, so much; have an excellent day!]


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